


A Woman Walks Into a Bar

by FrankenSpine



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, F/F, One Shot, Plot Twists, Re-upload, Revised Version, Slightly revised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 03:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankenSpine/pseuds/FrankenSpine
Summary: Emma goes to a bar, where she comes face to face with a strangely-familiar bartender that she swears she's never seen before. As she comes to find out, not all is as it seems.*Re-upload*





	A Woman Walks Into a Bar

**Author's Note:**

> Re-upload, with a slight revision, under my new pseud.

A woman walks into a bar. She’s just finished a long shift at the local diner and is in need of a good drink to help ease her nerves. The place is empty, save for the beautiful brunette behind the bar, wiping down the counter.

The brunette looks up at the woman and offers a genuine smile, as if the woman’s presence has delighted her. She seems awfully familiar, but the woman can’t quite seem to place her.

“Hello,” the bartender greets, “Anything I can get you? A beer? Gin?”

The woman sighs heavily as she takes a seat at the bar. “Got anything stronger?” she mutters, resting her cheek onto her closed fist. Her green eyes are downcast and she is visibly uncomfortable.

The bartender places a glass on the counter and fills it with a clear liquid with a distinct smell. “Sailor Vodka,” she says as she slides it towards her lonely customer, “Try not to drink it too quickly. It’s pretty stout.”

The woman laughs, not in good humor, but bitterly. “I’ll take my chances,” she says with a sigh.

The bartender watches her closely as she sips the drink. “So, mind telling me what’s got you so down in the dumps?”

“I just had to work overtime at this shitty diner down the block,” the woman responds, “and I had some old son-of-a-bitch cuss me out for not heating his coffee up enough. It was scalding, mind you. Then this other asshole almost runs me over while I’m heading home. I decided to come here instead. I just really felt like I needed a drink, you know?”

The bartender offers a soft smile. “I know exactly what you mean,” she says, “You weren’t hurt, were you?”

The woman shakes her head. “No. Just a little on-edge. Something doesn’t feel right, but I don’t know what it is, exactly.”

“You mean aside from almost being run over?”

“Yeah,” the woman says quietly, “It’s something else. You know, I was wrong. It’s not that it doesn’t feel right. It just feels, I don’t know, _different—_ but it doesn’t feel ‘wrong.’ Does that make sense?”

The bartender nods. “I think I see what you mean.” She continues wiping down the rest of the counter. “Anything else I can get you, Emma?”

The woman is taken aback by this. “How do you know my—”

She pauses when she sees the knowing look in the brunette’s eyes.

“Your name tag, dear,” the bartender says softly.

“Oh. Right.” _God, I’m such an idiot,_ the woman thinks.

“You’re not an idiot. You’ve just had a bad day, is all. Your mind is all over the place.”

Now this cannot be explained away so easily. “How’d you do that?” asks Emma, “How’d you know what I was thinking?”

The brunette smiles. “Lucky guess.”

“No, don’t do that. Seriously, how’d you know?”

Again, the bartender says, “Lucky guess.”

Emma sighs. “Sure. Whatever.” She tries to forget about it, along with everything else, as she sips her vodka slowly.

“You won’t want to drink that on an empty stomach,” the brunette tells her, “Can I get you anything?”

“You got a menu?”

“Of course.” The bartender places a small, laminated menu on the counter. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Emma looks over the menu briefly (namely the appetizers). “I’ll just have the mozzarella sticks,” she says.

“Is that all?”

“Yeah. I’m not really that hungry.”

The bartender just nods. “Ranch or marinara?”

“Ranch is fine.”

“Alright, I’ll have that ready in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Emma’s brows furrow. She swears she’s heard that phrase before, but she can’t pinpoint where. Her mind is fuzzy, like static on a TV screen. Everything is just one big blur. She knows she was almost hit by a car, but she can’t remember walking here, to this bar. She can’t even think of the name of this place. She knows there was a sign out front, but she can’t recall what it said.

The brunette turns away, only for a moment or two, and somehow— _some way—_ when she turns back around, she’s holding a small basket of fried mozzarella sticks and a small cup of ranch dressing. There is steam rising off of the food, like it’s just come out of the fryer. She sets the red basket down in front of Emma, who looks completely bewildered.

Emma looks at the bartender, then at her food, and back up at the brunette. “How the hell did you do that?”

“Call it magic,” says the bartender.

“No, that’s insane, is what it is,” Emma argues.

“Not here,” the brunette tells her with a smile.

“Who are you?” asks Emma, “What’s your name?”

“Regina,” the bartender replies, “but those closest to me know me as _Roni.” _

For one reason or another, Emma feels obligated to ask, “Short for Veronica?”

Roni smiles. “Yeah.”

Emma is quiet for a moment. “Do you own this place?”

Roni shakes her head. “No. This is actually my first shift.”

“I figured there would be more people in here.”

“Not yet,” Roni says cryptically, “but I’m sure there will be, sooner or later.”

“Well, I guess this is a pretty easy shift, huh?”

“Not as easy as you’d think,” says the bartender. There is a distinct look of sadness in her eyes, which her smile doesn’t quite reach. “It’s actually quite difficult for me.”

“I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it,” Emma assures her.

“Doubtful.”

“What makes you say that? Is it really so hard to pour drinks?”

Roni sighs. “That isn’t the hard part, Emma.”

“Then what is?” Emma asks.

“Knowing. Grieving,” says the brunette. Her voice falls to a sullen whisper. _“Waiting.” _

“You’ve lost me.”

Again, the bartender lets out a sullen sigh, hanging her head in what looks like shame. “Of course you don’t understand.”

Emma frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Roni meets her gaze with a look of hurt and sorrow. “What do you remember, Emma?”

“Huh?”

Suddenly, the neon jukebox in the back of the bar comes to life, and some smooth jazz begins to play, offering a sense of peace. Emma doesn’t know how it came on by itself, but she decides not to question it. Maybe it’s just automatic or something. She’s pulled from her thoughts by Roni’s concerned voice.

“I said, ‘what do you remember?’”

“I know what you said. I just don’t know what you mean.”

“How did you get here?”

“I walked. Obviously.”

“And which route did you take?”

“I— It was, um—”

“You don’t know, do you?”

Emma is silent for a moment as she ponders this with a slight frown. “No,” she says quietly, visibly confused. She looks into Roni’s dark eyes with uncertainty. “Why don’t I remember?”

“Because you didn’t walk here, Emma,” the brunette murmurs.

“What? Then how did I—”

“This was our place, you know. Our favorite place.”

“Huh? ‘Our’ place? I just met you.”

Roni shakes her head. “No. We both know that isn’t true. Your mind may be fuzzy right now, but deep down, you know you recognize me. You know my face. You know my name. I was on your mind when you decided to cross the street.”

“And how would you know that? Are you sure you’re not psychic?”

“Emma, listen to me,” Roni says firmly. There are tears in her eyes. “Are you in any pain?”

“Pain? No. There’s nothing.”

“Exactly. That feeling that something was different?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s from the anesthesia.”

Emma frowns. “Anesthesia? Roni, what the hell—”

“Think about it, Emma. I mean _really_ think about it.” Roni leans closer to the stunned blonde. “How much do you remember?”

“About what? My day?”

“No. From when the car almost hit you up until now.”

“Oh. Not much, really. It’s like, one second, I was crossing the street, and the next, I was walking in here.”

“And you don’t find that strange?”

“I thought it was just because I was in a haze from all the stress. What exactly are you trying to say? Stop being so cryptic.”

Roni lets out a heavy sigh and closes her eyes. “You never crossed the street, Emma.”

_ “What?_ Then explain to me how I got here.”

Roni hesitates. “Your conscience is here, Emma. The rest of you is hooked up to a machine, trying to keep you alive.”

“What is this, then? The Matrix?”

“Emma, I’m not joking.” Roni’s face is streaked with murky tears that have melded with her mascara as she locks eyes with the stunned young woman. “You didn’t _almost_ get hit by a car,” she rasps.

Emma’s expression goes from one of confusion to one of complete and utter horror. Existential terror creeps into her mind like a deadly plague. She stares down at her trembling, pale hands in shock.

“You mean I’m—”

She can’t bring herself to finish that sentence. She looks up once more, speechless, as Roni’s hand caresses her cheek. The brunette’s skin is ice-cold. Tears well in Emma’s eyes as the bartender gives a small nod of confirmation.

“It doesn’t feel like it,” rasps the blonde.

“And how would you know?” Roni asks her, “You’ve never been dead before.”

Hearing that word sends an unpleasant chill down Emma’s spine, and she shudders involuntarily, then suddenly, there’s a shift in the atmosphere. She feels like she’s just had a weight lifted from her shoulders— like she’s no longer carrying a burden. She just stares into Roni’s eyes, and a sense of peace washes over her like a gentle wave.

“But somehow I feel more alive than ever,” she says.

A soft smile tugs at Roni’s lips. “You know who I am now, don’t you?” she asks.

Emma can only smile and nod. “Yeah,” she says softly, “I remember.”

The brunette walks out from behind the bar and offers her hand to Emma, who takes it with only a moment’s hesitation.

“Come on,” she murmurs. She plants a feather-light kiss upon Emma’s cheek. “Let’s go home.”

Emma blinks at her in surprise. “Home?”

Roni nods. “Yeah.” She squeezes Emma’s hand gently. “I’ve been waiting for you long enough, darling. I’ve missed you.”

Emma looks down at their intertwined fingers, and for the first time since she walked into this quiet little bar, she notices that both of them are wearing rings. She feels like the air has been stolen out of her lungs, but oddly enough, it’s a nice feeling. It brings with it a sense of freedom and serenity. She smiles warmly at Roni.

“I’ve missed you, too,” she whispers.

She remembers. She remembers _everything._ She remembers losing Roni a year prior. Ironically enough, it was also a car that took her wife away. But she knows it doesn’t matter anymore. There’s nothing either of them can do about it now.

Together, they walk hand in hand out of the bar, and as they do, the place begins to fill up with customers. Two policemen, one Irish, the other Scottish, take their seats at the counter and order a couple of beers. As they do, the old man behind the counter turns on the TV and is visibly concerned by what he sees.

“Ain’t that a shame?” he says, shaking his head, “That poor girl.” He looks to the two policemen. “You two know anything about this?”

“We’re still looking into it,” says the Irishman, quietly sipping his beer.

“Do ya know who did it?”

“Not yet,” says the Scotsman, “It was a hit and run.”

“Shit. I can’t imagine what it must be like for her folks.”

The bartender looks up at the TV, turning up the volume. The reporter on the screen is visibly disturbed. There is blood all over the street and police are everywhere. Red and blue lights flash rapidly in the background.

_“Twenty-eight year-old Emma Swan was found dead near Fenway Park just hours ago, following an apparent hit and run. Eyewitnesses say they spotted a red Jeep speeding away from the crime scene, but police are still searching for the suspect.”_

“Jesus,” says the bartender, “I hope she’s happy, wherever she is.”

“Aye,” says the Irishman, “May God have mercy on her soul.”

The Scotsman scoffs as he takes a drink, slamming the glass on the counter with a frown. “If _God_ was merciful, he never would have let this happen in the first place.”

“Perhaps he was just reuniting Emma with her wife,” says the Irishman.

“Doubtful.”

“Have faith, Weaver. There’s no harm in looking upwards for answers.”

“I’d say if you’re busy looking to an invisible man in the clouds, you’re harming yourself more than anyone else ever could.”

The Irishman sighs. “Just drink your beer.”

“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said since we came in, Rogers.”

The two sit in tense silence, sipping their beers while the static of the TV crackles in the background. Little do they know, somewhere in the universe, there are two beautiful souls dancing together among the stars.


End file.
